


Mending

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: We’re All Fools and Worthless Liars [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Don’t Mess With a Sewing Circle, F/M, First Aid, M/M, Mending, Metaphors, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Must Abigail Do Everything?, Mutual Pining, Pining, Poor Kieran, Sewing, Six Point Cabin, absolute idiots, chapter 2 spoilers, oggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20257906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: “Why don’t you take a few of us up there, right now?” He heard Arthur demand threateningly. Looking over, John saw him cutting the O’Driscoll loose.He’d talked. He’d finally talked. In retrospect, a hot pair of tongs near any man’s parts would get him to do damn near anything.John quickly grabbed his saddle. “Get ready, Old Boy, we ain’t gettin’ left outta this one.”





	Mending

**Author's Note:**

> The boys head up to Six Point Cabin. Just some minor violence, some minor oggling, and boy oh boy do I like me a good metaphor!
> 
> Just some fluff, some plot filler. Mending a relationship takes time. *Totally* just guys being dudes...

The next morning around dawn, Arthur woke up feeling like he’d hardly slept. When he sat up, he groaned and rubbed at his face. There were a few relieving pops in his joints when he stretched. Some of the stiffness eased away. 

The rising sun peeked through the trees, casting warm beams of light through the moist air. The fire pit still smoldered, a trail of weak smoke curling through the air. Uncle could be heard from somewhere nearby, snoring his head off. Pearson was puttering around his wagon, humming to himself. Otherwise, the camp was quiet.

Pushing himself up from his cot, he put on his light coat and hat. Turning, he caught a glimpse of his tired face in his shaving mirror. He’d looked worse, but he still muttered, “Ugly bastard.” Ducking under the brim of his hat, he stepped out from under his tent. 

But then he paused. Right outside of John’s tent. The front and back flaps were tied back to let the breeze through.

_Must’ve gotten warm last night. _

The younger man was curled up in his cot, fast asleep. Alone. Dressed only in a pair of black trousers with a thin sheet draped haphazardly over him. Head pillowed on a bare arm.

A lock of hair was lying across his face, fluttering a little over his mouth as he breathed. His eyelashes were all fanned out over his cheekbones. The scratches on his right cheek were still red but they were looking much better compared to when Arthur had first dragged him down off that mountain. 

He certainly seemed to be sleeping better. At least better than Arthur noticed he had been lately. There was no restless shifting, jaw clenching or laboured breathing. No, he was still. Looking all peaceful...and soft. 

Shaking his head, Arthur walked towards the smell of coffee and oatmeal, feeling miserable.

While drinking a scalding cup of coffee and pouring bland oatmeal down his throat he was accosted by Strauss. He didn’t mind. In fact he almost immediately accepted the enlistment of going out to collect a debt. Especially after he’d caught himself lingering outside that damn tent..._admiring_ the sleeping John Marston.

Debt collecting wasn’t glamorous work. But Arthur would take any excuse to leave camp. To get his mind off of things. So he finished his coffee and headed out.

Collecting from Chick Matthews turned out easy enough. Might have been fun if he weren’t in such a foul mood. While inconvenient, Arthur liked a chase once in a while. Harold was a deceptively fast horse, and caught up with Matthews along the railroad tracks. Arthur may have dragged the slippery little ranch hand around a bit more than was necessary after lassoing him off his horse. But the little shit deserved it. He had some steam to work off, and if he was going to be out collecting debts, it might as well be from assholes. He didn’t take much pleasure in beating up pleasant folk. Except of course those that really deserved it.

Arthur was a little disappointed that the money was exactly where Matthews had said it would be. He might have enjoyed taking that little shit’s teeth as well. It also meant he had to go back to camp. He didn’t much care for carrying around that much money. It burned a hole in one’s pocket and nefarious characters always had a way of sniffing something like that out. 

He should know, he was one of them. 

Upon returning, Arthur found camp lively and awake. He’d only been gone a couple of hours, but it was always fascinating to see how the gang functioned when he wasn’t around. Functioning for the most part at least. While hitching up Harold, he spotted John up and about. 

The brunet was making himself useful, hauling hay bales. Dressed now. Sort of. He was only wearing a red undershirt beneath his coat, buttons all undone. Showing off his collarbone, and throat. 

Arthur bit down on the inside of his cheek and focused on picking a few burrs off of Harold. 

But he couldn’t help but glance up again. 

It seemed like John was moving better than he had been the previous day. The bastard usually healed up pretty fast. Food and proper sleep’ll do that to a man.

_And sex will get a man proper sleep_, Arthur thought ruefully. Less than distantly, he recalled that long, muffled groan he’d overheard from John’s tent while he’d been in the middle of changing his shirts last night. 

When John set down a bale, he turned in Arthur’s direction. 

Arthur looked down quickly, patting his horse. Harold snuffed, nosing at the bag at his side. Arthur obliged him and fed him some of the wild carrots he’d found on his way back to camp. When he glanced carefully up beneath his hat, John had turned away again. 

Grinding his teeth, Arthur pressed his forehead against Harold’s neck. “I’m a damn fool,” he growled quietly. In response, the morgan nickered quietly, chewing the carrots. 

Pushing away from the horse, Arthur dropped the camp’s share in the box and went over to Pearson’s wagon for some water. When he did, he heard a soft plead, “Please…”

Arthur paused, looking over at the tree where Kieran Duffy was tied up. The kid looked weak, in pain and malnourished. Just like Dutch wanted him.

“Speak to them for me, please,”

Arthur tossed back the water he’d taken and set down the cup, “You got some speakin’ to do of yer own. About that old gang of yours.” It had been some time now. The O’Driscoll had been given water once or twice a day, but no food. Arthur was starting to think that the boy really didn’t know anything.

Kieran hung his head and pleaded quietly, “I said...I told you...I don’t know nothing!” 

Heaving a sigh, Arthur placed his hands on his belt, “That’s what I thought.”

Surely no boss was worth starving to death over? Unless he was more afraid of Colm O’Driscoll than he was of them…

——

John was brushing down Old Boy when he heard the commotion. 

“You sick bastards! What do you want from me?!”

He looked over past Pearson’s wagon and saw Dutch, Arthur and Bill surrounding the O’Driscoll where he was tied to a tree. And Bill had a set of gelding tongs, hazy with heat from the fire. 

The O’Driscoll’s trousers were down around his ankles, and he was shrinking back into the tree on account of how close them tongs were to his balls. 

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered, shaking his head. He reached down and adjusted himself sympathetically and vigorously went back to brushing his horse. He didn’t care for the O’Driscoll boy, but a sight like that was fit to make any man queasy. 

He did his best to ignore the frantic babbling of the young man. He was waiting on a real scream that would indicate that Bill had actually done it. No sane man would want to bear witness to that. But it didn’t come. 

“Why don’t you take a few of us up there, right now?” He heard Arthur demand threateningly.

Looking over, he saw the blond cutting the O’Driscoll loose. 

He’d talked. He’d finally talked. 

_A hot pair of tongs near any man’s parts would get him to do damn near anything._

He quickly grabbed his saddle. “Get ready, Old Boy, we ain’t gettin’ left outta this one.” 

“John, Bill, come here! We got a social call needs making.” Arthur said, sounding low and rough. He always did before a job, more so when he was excited about said job. It must be good. “Where we headed?” He asked the O’Driscoll.

“U-up in the hills behind Valentine, I’ll show ya.” 

“John, you take this little rattlesnake with you. Any nonsense, kill him.” Arthur ordered, meeting John’s eyes. There was a seriousness there. 

John had just finished cinching up his saddle and was already mounting up, “Sure.” He couldn’t believe he was actually being invited out on a job. It wasn’t like he was gonna let them leave without him this time, but he hadn’t had to invite himself along. 

Now he could get back to providing for the camp. Being useful. Respected...well as much as he was worth their respect. Especially if they were going where he thought they were.

“He takin’ us to Colm?” John asked, not bothering to lend an arm to their captive. Instead he let him struggle up behind him on his own.

“That’s what he says, come on.”

John nudged Old Boy down the trail, leading the way, almost unseating his passenger. With a worried grunt, the boy took hold of his waist. 

“Sharing saddle with an O’Driscoll,” John mused, “Who’da thought!”

The ride out of camp was easy going. Sort of. John made a comment on how much his passenger stank. Arthur and Bill bickered for a bit. Then the blond rode up beside him.

“How you holdin’ up, John?”

“Fine,” John answer after a moment, glancing at Arthur. Curious. A little stunned. “Still ain’t right. But I’m fine. On the mend.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “You damn well should be after all that bed rest.”

“Hey, alright, Abigail wouldn’t let me up,” John grunted, fighting off the very present feeling of being a burden. “You know her, she won’t be reasoned with.”

“Well, when you were havin’ a failure of reason and hidin’ behind yer woman, we were gettin’ shot at.”

_Why’re you being like this?_ John wondered to himself. _Why is it always like this now?_ “I’d do the same for you if you was in a bad way. Besides, weren’t you just giving me shit yesterday for leavin’ camp?” 

Arthur ignored the question, “I hope you’d do the same for me. I wonder if you know how to help anyone excepting yourself.”

Grinding his teeth, John shook his head and looked back to the road as they climbed the hill. “You see O’Driscoll? If this is how he treats his friends, imagine what he does to his enemies.”

“I got an inkling of what ya’ll do to yer enemies when you put those gelding tongues to my parts.” Kieran said nervously, holding tight to his waist as they climbed. John resisted the sudden urge to shove him off the back of his horse. 

The cabin they came up on was heavily guarded. They got in close by being quiet. John was impressed by how much Arthur had improved with a bow. He was still pretty good at throwing knives. 

“Take him quiet, Marston. Get yer hands dirty for a change.” Arthur ordered quietly, indicating an O’Driscoll sitting obliviously on a log. 

And dirty John’s hands became. You stab someone in the throat a few times, you’re bound to get bloody.

But the whole thing inevitably turned into a shootout when someone spotted them. 

A shiver of fear and wonder went down John’s spine when Arthur cocked his rifle and dropped four O’Driscolls in the blink of an eye. On a good day, he thought highly of the man. Cared for him more than he should. But he sometimes needed reminding how good Arthur was at killing. 

John hadn’t turned out much different. 

The bullets were flying, people were yelling expletives, insults and taunts back and forth. 

“We catch you unawares?!” John called, laughing as he ducked behind a wagon.

“We caught’em on the drunk!” Bill hollered.

Taking a moment, John reloaded some shells and checked the new wound along his shoulder. It was just a graze, very little blood, but it had left a sizable tear in his coat and shirt. 

_Like you always say, Arthur. I’m lucky._

The shooting didn’t last much longer. The remaining men in camp were turning tail. They took a few shots at the runners before Arthur stopped them. 

“Leave’em! Colm’s still here.”

“He said Colm would be in the cabin.”

“I’ll check, you look out here.” Arthur instructed, headed towards the cabin. John made it a point to turn when he passed so his wound wasn’t visible. Might as well hide it until they were done, delay the needling as much as possible. 

He was crouched down, digging through a dead man’s pockets when the door to the cabin burst open, knocking Arthur helplessly off of his feet.

John cried out his name, swinging his gun up to the man standing over the blond with a shotgun.

A gunshot rang out through the air, bringing John’s heart up to his throat. 

It weren’t no shotgun blast. The man sunk to the porch, coughing up blood. John jumped to his feet, and stared flabbergasted at Kieran Duffy, who’d just shot Arthur’s attacker with a stolen gun.

“You alright?!” The boy exclaimed, panting hard, visibly shaken.

“Sure,” Arthur drawled, just lying there like he was gathering his thoughts. “Thank you.”

John hurried over, “Arthur, are you,”

The big man ignored him, checking the cabin and them stomping past him to yell at Kieran. “Come here! You set us up!”

“What? No I didn’t!” Their captive squeaked, holstering his gun. 

“Colm O’Driscoll ain’t here!” Arthur growled, holding the barrel of his gun up in the boy’s face. John set his jaw, watching them carefully as Bill came.

“He was here! I swear, I, if I was settin’ you up, I-I wouldn’t’a saved your life!” Kieran stammered, holding up his hands. 

Chuckling, Bill interjected, “It’s a good point, Arthur.” 

A trail of dripping blood caught John’s eye and distracted him as the argument continued. It was dripping down the side of Arthur’s gun hand. There was a sizable cut there along the base of his hand. Too clean to be anything but a knife wound. It left a bright red stain on Kieran’s shirt when he shoved him away.

“That’s as good as killin’ me! Out there...Colm O’Driscoll’s gonna lose his mind about this!” 

“So?” Arthur grunted. 

“So I’m one’uh _you_ now.” Kieran said firmly. Showing more pluck in this moment than John had seen out of him. Granted, he’d been starving, and tied to a tree. 

The argument settled after only two more threats on Kieran’s life. It seemed that the Van Der Linde gang had another mouth to feed. As Arthur was moving back toward the cabin door to check for cash, John stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“You’re hurt.” 

Arthur looked John in the eye and replied without missing a beat, “Yeah. So’re you. Get back to camp. I’ll be right behind ya.” 

John raised his eyebrows, wondering how Arthur had seen, and put a hand to his shoulder. “It ain’t deep,”

“Then you should be just fine to get back to camp,” Arthur rumbled and added with an air of finality, “So get on,” then he disappeared into the cabin.

It took some bickering, but Bill ended up taking Kieran on the back of his horse on the way back to camp. After all, it was only fair. John had to smell him all the way to Six Point Cabin, he shouldn’t have to smell him all the way back.

Neither Kieran nor Bill were too pleased. Bill on account of the smell. Kieran on account that Bill was the one who had held the gelding tongs. 

Dutch was surprised to see them return without Arthur and with their captive still in hand. 

“Colm?” was the first thing out of his mouth.

“He weren’t there, Dutch,” John shook his head, “Missed him.”

There was the sound of a horse riding up the trail and Hosea came into view. The old man frowned and dismounted, “What’s happened this time?”

“Our little friend here finally did some talking. I sent Arthur and the boys here to pay a visit to Colm O’Driscoll. Seems it was a wash.”

Hosea glanced around worriedly, “Where’s Arthur?”

Bill answered, “He’ll be along soon enough. He’s picking the place clean in case we missed somethin’.”

John shrugged, climbing down from his saddle, “It weren’t a complete waste of time, Dutch. We killed more than a few of Colm’s boys. Made some decent money off of it.”

“That’s at least something,” Dutch muttered, disappointed. Then he finally looked at Kieran, “I see we still have the O’Driscoll. There a reason for him still bein’ alive?”

Bill shoved the boy back off of his horse. He landed in the dirt with a cry, and a cough as the wind got knocked out of him. Bill laughed.

John shrugged, “He saved Arthur’s life. Killed an O’Driscoll who got the drop on him. Arthur says he ain’t worth killin’. Not just yet at least.” 

Dutch watched curiously as their previous captive picked himself up off of the ground, wheezing weakly, “I...I ain’t no O’Driscoll. I think I proved that by now.”

There was a mirth in Dutch’s eyes, and he nodded pensively, “We’ll see, boy. We’ll see,”

“Please, I don’t got nowhere else to go, I,”

“You any good at anything, boy?” Dutch asked.

Kieran looked caught off guard, like he was expecting more friction. “I-I’m good with horses, and I,”

“Good, good, you’ll look after the horses then. Pull your weight.” Dutch said, and then he looked at the boy a little more seriously. His eyes darkened and he said lowly, “Everyone around here earns their keep. Be sure you earn it.” 

Kieran visibly shrunk back with a shiver, and nodded, “I-I will, sir.”

John scoffed and led Old Boy away, “Can the stable boy start earnin’ his keep by washin’ himself?”

Bill cackled, climbing down off his horse, “Do us all a favor.” He threw his reins to Kieran as he walked past, “Ol’ Brown Jack here picked up some burrs at your friend’s cabin. Don’t piss him off, or he’s liable to kick your head clean off yer shoulders, O’Driscoll.”

As John took care of his own horse, he kept an eye on Kieran. Watched as the long-fingered hands that had trembled so visibly when amongst men moved so steadily as he worked on the horses. Brown Jack was a big, ornery son of bitch, much like his rider. But Kieran’s quiet hands removed the bridle and saddle effortlessly. Brushed over his coat, wiping away the dried sweat, combed softly through his mane. 

Brown Jack was quiet, eyelids drooping as he contemplated a mouthful of hay. Kieran seemed at peace for the first time. Right in his element. Only grimacing and pressing at his belly when a hunger pang hit him.

John looked away and let Old Boy loose in the small field. _He weren’t lyin’ about bein’ good with horses._

He heaved a quiet sigh and moved into camp. It wasn’t his intention, but he felt almost indebted to Kieran for saving Arthur’s life. And jealous in some strange, backwards way. If John had only gotten his gun up in time. 

They’d spent most of their lives watching each others’ backs. He might’ve lost him…

“You okay?” 

John left his haze and found Abigail coming up to him, “M’fine.”

“I meant your shoulder.”

He looked at the graze. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, and it stung a little now that the excitement had worn down. He would live. “Just a scratch.” 

“Good,” she said with a nod, and then added, gesturing at the sizable tear in both his coat and shirt, “I’m not mending that, I hope you know.”

Karen piped up from nearby, with a pin hanging from the corner of her mouth and one of Uncle’s old shirts in her lap, “Neither am I!”

Tilly giggled, focusing hard on a torn seam in a pair of denims, “We already got too much on the mending pile.”

Mary Beth smiled, not looking up from stitching closed a hole in a pair of socks. 

John frowned sourly, feeling ganged up on for no particular reason, “Didn’t ask you to. I can mend my own damn shirt.” 

“Really now?”

“Ain’t that a spectacle!”

“Golly! A man who can mend his own damn shirt!”

Abigail reached into the sewing box and produced a needle tucked into a spool of black thread, “Prove it then, Marston.” 

Annoyed and blushing at the way all of the women were teasing him, John snatched the proffered materials. Maybe a bit too harshly as he felt the needle sink into the edge of his forefinger. On account of his pride, he held fast. Then he stomped over to plop down by the fire pit, shrugging off his coat as he went. 

_Mending ain’t so hard, dunno why they’re belly-achin’ about it,_ he sulked, threading the needle. He’d been sewing up holes in old clothes for half of his life. All of them secondhand, or older. Some shirts that used to belong to Arthur…

It took a few stitches before John got the hang of it. It wasn’t pretty, but he figured nothing about him was. Also, it was on the inside so it didn’t matter. He carefully folded and tacked down the frayed edges before tying the last couple of knots. 

_Alright, fine, mending is a pain in the ass,_ he thought stubbornly, and dropped the coat onto the log beside him. 

Then he peeled off his red shirt, leaving it inside out. Brushing his hair back out of his face, he went to work. 

Meanwhile, Abigail adjusted the bunched up canvas she was working with. One of the smaller tents had a hole torn through it. A hole that they suspected came from the good Reverend’s inebriated stumbling. She’d drawn the short straw. It was tedious work but it had to be done. 

She glanced over to check on John just in time to see the sun meet his bare back. The man had more than a few scars. His waist was leaner than it had any right being, and his shoulders were strong. Muscles moved definitively as he worked. Flexing softly at each stitch and pull of thread.

Mary Beth smiled and murmured with no real malice, “Indecent is what he is.”

“You complainin’?” Karen snickered quietly.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Tilly whispered.

Abigail smirked slyly at her. The sound of a horse coming up into camp afforded her a glance over her shoulder. A light-coated, small horse trotted into view, carrying a man in a familiar brown coat and black hat.

_Just in time,_ she thought, turned back and said, “You have _no_ idea, Tilly Jackson.”

Arthur hitched Harold up and strode into camp. He turned his hand and looked at the cut. Some O’Driscoll had gotten a little close and pulled a knife on him during the shootout. It could’ve turned out much worse. But it was still trickling blood, much slower now, but still making a right mess of everything. 

He’d take care of it after depositing the camp’s share. 

To say he got a little distracted on the way to Dutch’s tent would be an understatement. But it weren’t his fault.

John Marston was sitting by the firepit, naked from the waist up, sweat glistening in the sunlight. 

Swallowing hard Arthur went past, and put in the camp’s share. As he was making his mark in the ledger, he couldn’t help glancing up. 

John Marston was a lean man to begin with, always had been. In his teen years he’d been all limbs, willowy and foolish. He’d filled out eventually. Sort of. But today, he looked a little skinnier than usual. More than likely on account of his being bedridden. 

Aimlessly, Arthur flipped a page in the book, not really paying attention to the contents. From under the brim of his hat, his eyes moved up the strong curve of back and along a defined shoulder where long black hair rested. A calm look of concentration rested on a scarred face as he pulled thread through the red shirt he’d started the day wearing. 

“Just what in hell are you doing, Marston?” Arthur grumbled, looking back down to the ledger, trying to snap out of it.

John paused, and looked over at the blond. Turning a little red, he answered, “What’s it look like I’m doin’?” 

“Looks like you’re helping out the women! You’re useful for something it seems,” Arthur replied, approaching. John looked up at him, sitting up a little straighter on the log. He glanced over his shoulder at the women who were pretending to not to eavesdrop. 

He heaved a sigh, “They was teasing me. ‘Sides if a man can’t mend his own clothes, what’s the point in havin’ them?” 

“True enough.”

John put down his shirt, and reached out. Startled, Arthur attempted to step back, but the brunet had already taken a hold of his gun hand. He hissed when John roughly pushed up his sleeve to get a better look at the knife wound. There was a shine to his skin that smelled of gun oil and there was black debris caught in the drying blood. Probably from the chimney at the cabin. Kieran had said there’d be cash in the chimney.

“Better clean that, or you’re gonna get blood poisoning,” John muttered, standing. “C’mon.” 

Abigail looked on as she worked. She listened to John pester Pearson for some of the clean, hot water. Watched Arthur wash his wound, grumbling when John came over from Strauss’ wagon with some salve and clean linen. 

She pushed the thick needle through the canvas and pulled it as tight as she could, observing as Arthur let John take his hand to dress his wound. She didn’t miss the exaggerated gentleness of John’s ministrations. She knew she saw Arthur swallow and work his jaw nervously. She listened as they poked fun at each other for getting hurt. 

Worked through her surprise when Arthur returned the favor and wiped down the graze on John’s shoulder with a clean, wet rag. Recognized the subdued, and subtly pleased look in John’s eyes when Arthur gently worked salve into the wound.

“They seem to be getting along again.” Mary Beth remarked, folding the socks she had just finished darning. 

“Glad they’re friends again. I thought they were liable to kill each other one of these days,” Tilly added, frowning at the fraying thread holding her leather thimble together.

Karen snorted, “Still could.”

“Mmhm.” Abigail hummed, pulling the torn edges of the canvas back together when they separated. The thick needle she used hurt her fingers. The fat thread caught on the canvas, making it hard to tighten. It was going to be a long, arduous task. But she was up for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and/or kudos! Lovely to hear from you!


End file.
